


Peace Until Three

by Ashling



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Comfort Food, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, Magic, Marriage, Married Couple, No Plot/Plotless, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25396570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling
Summary: Sansa is pregnant, and Susan puts her foot down.
Relationships: Susan Pevensie/Sansa Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30
Collections: Battleship 2020, Battleship 2020 - Yellow Team





	Peace Until Three

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ba_lailah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ba_lailah/gifts).



Sansa got in only one big yawn before she realized that it was full light in her room and hauled herself upright. 

“Everything’s fine,” her wife said, mildly. She was sitting at a side table with her arrow clamp, fletching an arrow. 

Sansa was hungry, a little nauseous, late for her morning council, and exceedingly annoyed. Also, her feet hurt. She didn’t even know where to start with  _ everything’s fine,  _ so she just glared.

“I took your morning council, Maester Wessel is assessing the census and will leave his report in your solar, and you have nothing to do until three,” said Susan. 

“I have lots to do,” said Sansa.

“Dear,” said Susan, in That Particular Voice, “you have absolutely nothing to do until three.”

The staredown would have been long and terrible, except that Sansa’s stomach growled, and that put an end to it. 

“About that,” said Susan, her voice pleasant and mild once again. She stood up from the table and walked into their massive, elaborately carved wardrobe.

Sansa sighed. More witchcraft. It wasn’t that she disliked witchcraft—it was a type of unfair advantage, and she  _ adored  _ having an unfair advantage of any kind over anybody—it was that she was uncomfortable with anything she couldn’t study and dismantle and understand. The whole point of magic was that its powers remained outside the complete understanding of magic. That tended to make her nervous, and she was always very grateful when her wife reappeared from the wardrobe in one piece, although she didn’t say it. Susan tended to think that Sansa worried too much, which was nonsensical. Sansa was the only person in Westeros who worried the exact right amount.

This time, this one single time, Sansa’s worry was for naught. Her wife reappeared in a couple of minutes, carefully pushing coats and dresses out of her way and bearing a large wooden tray with a matching wooden cover. “What do you wish I had on this tray?” she said.

“Sugar, good health, sugar, a well-written rejected to the treaty offered by Robyn Arryn, maybe a pickled egg?” Sansa thought about it. “Good news about the fish preservation effort, and a large amount of sugar.”

“I have here toast with honey, toast with blackberry preserves, toast spread with pickled egg salad, a slice of marmalade roll, and one iced lemon cake. Mrs. Beaver was very enthusiastic.” Susan paused.

“But?” said Sansa.

“There’s also tea,” said Susan, and over her wife’s groans, she added, “Ahlassa made it.”

“Without that Calormene witch, I would still be able to fit all my dresses,” said Sansa sulkily.

“Without that Calormene witch, we would not have an heir on the way,” said Susan. Which was quite unfair to say out loud, when Sansa already knew.

“Give it here.”

The tea itself turned out to be gold. Not a warm yellowish color, but the color of gold, shimmering with a thousand flecks of metallic light. Sansa expected it to taste like she was licking a gold ring, but instead it tasted intensely floral and smelled like jasmine.

Susan held out a small wooden bucket, just in case, but Sansa just shook her head and held up one finger. Then, suddenly, she surprised them both with the most enormous belch. They looked at each other, and then they both laughed.

She really was unbelievably beautiful, this Susan Pevensie, Sansa couldn’t help but think. 

“Lemon cake first?” said Susan. Sansa answered by taking a bite. Oh, Mrs. Beaver could bake, even if she was no taller than Sansa’s hip and rather fond of chewing on wood. The cake was everything one could ask for in a lemon cake: sharp with lemony taste, light and airy but still rich in butter, and drenched in an icing so good she had to lick her fingers. She liked it so much that she didn’t eat it in public. She didn’t do many things in public. 

She glanced over at her wife, who was tucking her long dark hair into the collar of her dress to keep it out of her way, then tucking into the marmalade roll. Susan herself had very little trouble doing things in public. She could go quiet, sometimes, when keeping her own judgment, and she could keep cruel observations to herself, but Sansa sensed in her far less reservation than Sansa felt every day. Far less fear. The Susan that appeared inside their bedchamber doors and the Susan that appeared in the Great Hall were remarkably similar people. Sansa, on the other hand, was an almost entirely different person. If she was presented with a magically tonic tea in public, she would have drunk the whole thing at once and without stopping, like a bannerman with a mug of ale, and complained about it only inside her own head.

She had expected not to like marriage much. But it really was nice, having someone to complain to.

“Do I have marmalade up my nose or something?” said Susan, catching her staring. 

“No,” said Sansa. “Do you want to play chess?”

“Always.”

Though Sansa’s first experience with the game had been a year ago, when she got a silver-and-sapphire set from Edmund on her wedding day, she had taken to it avidly and there was nobody she liked to play against more than Susan. Susan beat her nine times out of ten, having played against both her mother and father as a child (and from Sansa’s understanding both her mother and father had been some sort of maester) and yet in the privacy of their own room, it didn’t matter. No, it wasn’t that it didn’t matter; it mattered a great deal. It didn’t hurt Sansa’s reputation, though. And it gave her a sense of secret strength that she relished. Her wife was perhaps one of the single most battle-averse people she’d ever met (and this again was strange, given what aim she had), but Sansa was fully confident that if she was ill (or giving birth), Susan could strategize well enough to win a battle and hold command of her troops. Many a time, early on, Sansa had needed to viciously stamp out attempts to encroach on her power as queen, particularly from men who thought their battle experience made them more deserving. But, Gentle as she was called, gentle as she was, Susan would not suffer that either, Sansa thought.

In any case, she lost three games in a row, ate lots of toast, and was in a terribly good mood by the time three o’clock rolled around. 

“Before I let you go,” began Susan.

“So you admit I was your prisoner,” said Sansa, reaching for the last bit of honey toast. 

“I never denied it.”

“Oh, go on, then.”

“I did draft a rejection letter to Robyn Arryn,” said Susan. She produced a single sheet of paper from one of the many secret pockets inside her dress. “But before you go and read it, and Maester Wessel’s report and all the rest, I have a letter for you. A Talking Crow brought it direct from North of the Wall.”

Sansa snatched the letter up and devoured it with her eyes. “Jon,” she said, at one point. And then, much louder, “Arya?” and then at last, she put the letter down. 

“How many people is that?” she said. She was this close to shaking, whether from joy or from an immense need to be off, she wasn’t sure. 

“I’d say at least a hundred.”

“And all their horses!”

“And Arya’s pet gryphon is going to need a lot of meat,” Susan confirmed.

Sansa hauled herself out of bed, which was no mean feat considering the size of her belly—the child was going to be a giant—and rushed towards the door as best as she could considering that her walk was half-waddle.

“Ah, well,” said Susan. “The peace was nice while it lasted.”

Sansa came back to her and gave her a kiss. “It was. You’re a most scheming woman and the very best wife I could have asked for. Don’t wait up.”

“I won’t,” said Susan.

“You sometimes do,” said Sansa.

“I won’t.” Susan smiled. 

Sansa kissed her again.


End file.
